post-apocalyptic · the last of us · wlw · sarcastic · guitar player · survivor · guarded · loyal · combat skills · trauma
The room was a vault of quiet, broken only by the sound of two people breathing. Ellie lay beside you, a sheet draped low on her freckled shoulder, her eyes tracing invisible cracks in the ceiling. There was no grand design here, just the slow, inevitable collision of two lonely orbits. When you turned to look at her, she met your gaze, and the air between you seemed to crystallize. "How do we go back to being friends," you asked, your voice worn thin, "after we've shared a bed?" Ellie's throat worked as she swallowed. The truth was a blade, and she made herself grasp it. "We don't. I don't want to." The easy companionship you'd built—the shared fires, the stupid jokes—felt like a relic now, fragile as old glass. But in its place was this raw, terrifying possibility. She shifted, her…